Sunday, July 29, 2007

Many things are true.  And the other way around,  also.  Like few things are true.  Many things are false.  Well,  you get the idea.  It’s all about choice. 

Wake with the intent to shop,  what am I looking for.  What to wear to go shopping.  Which car to drive.  Where to go.  Cheap.  Make do.  Quality. 

And then you make a decision and you get to the selected store and what happens?

A wrench.  Right hand or left handed.  Open ended or boxed or adjustable or crows feet or ratchet.  Thick wrench or skinny wrench.  Long wrench or short wrench.  Metric or Inches.  What color wrench.  Chrome wrench or cast iron wrench or steel wrench,  in natural finishes.

You going to pay in cash,  credit card,  check,  debit card or put it on account or just steal it.

While contemplating such things,  sitting there on the edge of the bed,  I dragged out the telephone book and riffled through the pages –  in themselves choices.  I found stores that specialized in nothing but wines.  Thousands of wines,  it seemed.  Hard stuff:  It all came with a price.  And stores with beers.  God alone knows how many beers.  A rehab center worth of beer. 

I shut the phone book.  All that alcohol would make me fat.  I left home to purchase a wrench. 

It took an hour or so of touching this and that,  reading this and that.  I finally decided not to buy a wrench.  Earlier I had decided to skip breakfast. 

I was now hungry.  Standing there on the sidewalk looking this way and that,   I saw,  within my horizon,  seventeen cafe’s,  quick food joints,  coffee bars,  Orange Julip,  and one greasy spoon. 

There were two super gargantuan grocery stores,  a candy store,  three ice cream specialists.

One ice cream store was directly across from me,  across a eight lane (counting the turn lanes) road,  one was a half mile or better to the left,  one was a half mile to the right (both the left and right stores were on the other side of the road).

As I stood there in the sun light, contemplating;  I remembered  the last time in an ice cream store.  I was faced with fifty-two flavors,  whether in individual servings,  half-pints, pints,  half gallons, gallons,  two gallons or really greedy.  I had chosen the fifty-two flavors store over the ninety-eight flavors store and the one hundred and twenty-four flavor store.  Mostly because of the fewer choices.  Which was a mistake because the prices were higher. 

I also remembered that once in the store,  I had decided on a cone.  A triple scoop of a cone.  One scoop of chocolate,  one scoop of vanilla, and one scoop of strawberry.  The lady had gladly done my bidding. 

She went one gloop of strawberry,  another gloop of vanilla and the final gloop of chocolate.  I protested.  I wanted chocolate,  vanilla, and then strawberry.  So she took off the chocolate,  which fell into the strawberry container,  and  then the vanilla,   which fell into the chocolate container.  Standing there with the scooper in her hand,  she looked about to cry and was protesting to me how sorry she was.  She became rattled and dropped the strawberry into the vanilla container.

Having lost it at this point the lady placed her knuckles on the sideboard,  which cracked the cone she was holding and took a breath.  She asked me the order in which I would like my cone and I told her.  Which she assembled.  In the cone with the hole in it.  Which I pointed out.  Which she wrapped in a paper napkin.  Which she handed to me.  Which is where I pointed out that her ice cream containers were a mess.  What with different stains of flavors in different flavored containers.  She charged me for the ice cream.

Outside that day,  I remembered that I had stood there in the sunlight looking at a small dog someone had tied to a parking meter.  The dog was able to get into the shade under the car parked there.  And I became conscious of the fact that the ice cream cone was melting through the hole,  soaking the napkin and the palm of my hand.  And that it was melting from the top and dripping down the side,  over my fingers and along my wrist. I noticed that it was making a mess,  and that it would get all over my hands,  then my car,  and I would have to clean it up –  which would mean shopping for some brand of cleaning materials.

So I threw the cone to the dog.  But the napkin wouldn’t come off my hand.  So I tore it off.  Which allowed it to stick to my other hand.

Which was a mess.

All of that I thought about standing in the sun light in front of the store where I failed to buy a wrench.  I decided to skip the food and go home.  I decided to take a nap when I got home.  I decided that shopping was tire-ing. 

I knew two things about a nap.  One: I wouldn’t have to decide anything.  Two: That when I woke I would have to go to the bathroom.  No doubt.  No argument. Have to go.

That would be a relief.

***

P.S.  Do you remember the first paragraph of this entry?

_____

From the reaches,

Ten Mile

About tenwhiskey

User tenwhiskey is also the author of this blog. He currently lives in small town Kansas in a semi-retired condition. His kids are married and gone (thank you). An empty nester. Divorced. Very happy with life as it is. Ten Mile maintains a personal blog here, writing of events as they appear to him; commentary, and opinions abound. He deviates into fiction as the mood strikes and creates flash fiction stories and short stories. He will not warn the reader when he drifts from fact to fiction. He feels adults are, generally, smart enough to figure out which is which. He does, however, attempt to make his fiction sound as true to life as possible. You have been warned. He, as time permits, writes and occasionally sells writing. More often than not he gives it away to various non-paying publishers of Ether Magazines, forums or for entertainment on a wall for in need of a hand friends. He likes candy, pies and a certain amount of strife. In the matter of strife - in his yourth on the farm, he became embroiled in a slinging fight. The fight involved lath as a launcher, fresh cow patties as ammo and it was a six way free for all. A little mud only adds (Umm?) a certain taste to life.
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